Cooking with Arthur
by SuomenNeito
Summary: Alfred is feeling pretty down, and also feels the need for sweets. Arthur/Alfred US/UK Pretty much fluff.


Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia Axis Powers or make any form of money from it. If I did... You'd probably know. :] *cough*

**Cooking with Arthur**

With a shot economy, a tiresome war, and strong decline of patriotism, America was extremely depressed. He had the most horrible feeling that his bountiful and glorious country would once again slip into a depression like the 1930s, and so he was not in the mood to do anything but sulk. And eat. And sleep. And-- Well, you get the point.

The blonde slouched into the kitchen of his darkened house, his stomach completely full thhough his mind was telling him to feast. He opened up his refridgerator. Cheeseburger? No, that's not what he had in mind. It wasn't sweet enough. Hotdog? Again, not quite what he was looking for.

_ Ring. Ring. Ring._

The American shuffled back into his living room, his superman slippers dragging on the floor and wearing the soles.

"Yo."

"Must you always answer the phone like that you git?"

"Sorry Arthur."

He could hear the briton on the other line falter,"Is something the matter Alfred?"

The American didn't answer right away, put played with the spiraling red cord of his telephone. He curled it playfully in and out of his fingers, enjoying the feel of the cool plastic.

"Arty... Do you know how to make a cake?"

"Well, yes... Why on earth would you want to know that?"

"Well, your cooking_ is _nasty, but I'm pretty desperate for sweets right now."

The shuffling on the other line signaled that Arthur was probably offended, but was considering whether he would help or not. Alfred knew he would. Arty always came to him when he needed him, even if it was something as simple as a craving for sweets to drown out depression.

"I'll meet you in an hour. Will you be home?"

"'Fo sho."

"_Never_ again will you speak like that. Talk to you later."

Click.

Alfred hung the phone back up and plopped back down on his couch like a bean bag that had lost most of it's beans. Blonde hair was tossed in every direction, having been neglected for days. His cheeks were flushed from the light fever his economy had inflicted on him, and dark circles were forming under his eyes from pulling all-nighters trying to fix everything. He needed a distraction, and some rest. Hopefully Arthur could help him this time. (Of course, he would have to make the cake himself. There was no way he would eat Arthur's food when he didn't have to.)

~*~*~

_Knock._

_ Knock, knock._

_ Knock, knock, knock._

"Open up you bloody wanker!"

There was a long pause, and England was starting to worry. America always opened the door for him when he came. Sometimes he had even waited at the window for him to come. The iffy attitude, the cake, the lack of enthusiasm... It was all starting to well up in Arthur's throat, a constant pricking in the back of his mind. It wasn't like America was a colony of his anymore. _'Well, his economy effects everyone else. That must be why.'_ He reasoned with himself and sighed, putting down the grocery bags in his hands. He lifted up the mat on the ground and pulled out the extra key.

There was a couple of things that went through the older country's mind when he first walked through the door. The first being: _'I can't believe that git fell asleep on me!'_ Then a moment later, another thought entered his head.

_'I can't believe someone as beautiful as _him_ could be as ignorant and--'_

The briton instantly felt heat in his cheeks, and mentally scolded himself for allowing such thoughts into his head. _'B-beautiful? More like chubby and... And... Look at that pudgey child! I thought I taught him better than that!'_

England shook his head, and turned away from America as if he had insulted him by even being _slightly_ attractive. It wasn't like he had looked any different from usual. Then again, it wasn't the first time he'd had one of those horrible_ horrible _thoughts.

He made his way back to the kitchen, his groceries back in hand. He set them on the counter and began to take them out of the bag and arrange them neatly on the counter. He also set a recipe he had copied down on an index card and set it on the counter.

"Francis was right, I spoil him far to much." The briton mused to himself, sifting the flour as called for in the recipe. "What would he ever do without me to baby him like I do?" He added, his voice rising slightly as he finished preparing the ingredients to be put into the batter.

"I am _not_ a baby! I'm a country just as much as you are. Even better, actually! I don't need you to baby me, I can do everything myself! I'm a hero you know!" Came a familiar voice, the taller blonde emerging from the living room. He looked beat, but at least his voice was normal again.

"Of course you are. I never said anything of the sort."

"You did too!"

When neither of them continued, Alfred approached the island counter, and rested his elbows on the marble. "Can I crack the eggs?"

Arthur snorted, but smiled, and handed the eggs over to Alfred. "Make sure you don't get the egg shells in it."

"I believe I cook better than you do."

"Then why do you eat out all the time?"

"Because if I didn't support my people by buying delicious American foods like hamburgers, I wouldn't be as heroic, would I?"

Once again, the American's logic was completely... Illogical. Then again, not being logical was okay so long as you had a pumped up military.

When the batter was finished, Alfred sprayed the pan with non-stick spray, and Arthur put it in the oven. The American secretly prayed that even though Arthur's hands had touched it, it may still taste good. When he was done with that, the American took the scraper from the counter and scraped at the bowl, and then licked it.

"That's not sanitary."

"Jealous, much?"

"No."

"You want a lick?"

Arthur stared at the scraper for a while, the thin line (made by the tip of Alfred's tongue) down the middle beckoning to him. It would be like indirectly... _Kissing_ him.

"I'll pass."

Alfred pouted and brought the scraper back to his own face and was about to lick it again. He looked at Arthur, and then to the scraper, then Arthur again. The briton couldn't quite say he'd ever seen that mischeivous look in the American's eyes before, and he couldn't say he liked it either.

Alfred gave the other country a crooked smile before dragging his tongue slowly along the edge of the scraper, wrapping his tongue around the tip, and then bringing it to meet his lips.

Arthur's throat tightened up, and made possibly the loudest gulp in all his history. His cheeks burned furiously. What in the _world _was he doing to that kitchen utensil?

The was definitley the distraction Alfred was looking for, but he had no idea at the time that he was the one making the distraction. He slid the scraper further into his mouth, watching Arthur's expression the entire time.

"S-stop that!" Arthur gasped, his voice sounding more half-hearted than anything.

"Know what would be even better?" Alfred said mysteriously, removing the violated scraper from his mouth, giving it one last lick.

"Anything but this?"

"If you say so." Alfred smirked, dropping the now useless kitchen utensil and scooped Arthur up into his arms.

Arthur flushed, kicking and thrashing violently. "Let me down you bloody wanker!"

"Y-you said anythi..."

The two flopped onto the couch, Alfred having lost his grip just as he reached his destination. Alfred's head laid on his the older nation's chest, his cheeks burning just as they had when he had been laying on the couch in a feverish slumber.

"You idiot, you over did it again." The briton sighed, pulling the other onto him, allowing Alfred to rest his head on his shoulder. The American nuzzled into England's neck, bringing his other arm around to push himself against the other, and then went limp again.

"I'm sorry... Just wanted... Maybe... Later?"

"Yes, maybe later. Only if you prove to be good, rest, and get your economy back up so you can function properly."

"Boss and I... Have... Talk..."

"Yes, now sleep."

Alfred didn't argue and snuggled close to Arthur's side and closed his eyes. Arthur pulled the glasses from the younger nation's eyes and ran his fingers through his already messy hair.

The oven started to beep, but Arthur didn't want to get up. He pressed small kisses into the younger nation's hair, wrapping his arms around him to press against his back. To protect him. To keep him close, like he couldn't so many years ago. The briton's eyes began to sting as a threat of tears, but he sucked it up. He couldn't cry, not again. He wouldn't lose his America again, and he was going to make sure of it.

~*~*~

First fiction up on the new account! It was random, and a result from getting plots early in the morning. I'm sorry if they seem a bit OOC, as this is the first I've written of the two. Forgive me for spelling, because I have to use word pad because my free trial of Microsoft Word 2007 ran out. ToT

Please review! Feel free to give me any Hetalia one shot requests. It may come true! I need practice...


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